Lacey didn't feel good about any of it.For the psychiatrist, it was like walking a tightrope. Or, perhaps it was like making her patient walk the tigh...rope. There needed to be remorse for a bad deed, for there to be health in the mind and spirit. But it could be taken too far, and the patient could begin to hate herself, or believe there was no possibility for redemption.The way to work through that was, oddly enough, to talk of the past."I want you to think about the way things were in the. The woman looked up from her desk, and fought back the smile thatthreatened to soften her aristocratic features. He was a sight innothing but his absurdly small mob cap, the white lace apron and themen's size 13 EEEE, six-inch-tall stiletto heels. A feather dusterhanging from a leather lanyard at his wrist was his only accessory.Ridiculous as his costume might seem to others less discerning thanherself, he was, in a word, perfect -at least for her."Yes, what is it?" she demanded sternly."I've. More

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