Well, Gloria thought, the problem was to lead him into something more productive and satisfying than the gangs of New York. And that didn't seem to be too hard.
Of course, she had very little practice as yet. The theoretical knowledge she'd been able to dig up in college was mostly on the magic and superstition shelves of the library—and, while she got full credit in her minor, Anthropology, for the research she'd done, a great deal of it just wasn't any practical help.
Not if you were a witch—or what passed for one.
"You see what I mean, don't you?" Mrs. Francis said.
"Of course I do," Gloria said, and gave the woman her most reassuring smile. "I'm sure something can be done. Do you know where your boy is now?"
Mrs. Francis nodded, birdlike. "He's home now. I think he's sleeping. He usually doesn't wake up until after noon."
"I see." Gloria hesitated a moment. "Can you describe him for me?"
"Describe him?"
"That's right," Gloria said. "You see, the somatotypes have, we've discovered, a great influence on mental and emotional makeup."
She didn't feel right, lying to the woman—but chances were that what she'd said didn't make any sense to Mrs. Francis and, in any case, Gloria could hardly tell her the real reason she wanted a description.