’ She shook her head. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. His shoulders relaxed and his gaze wavered. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. It was a betrayal of God and her former family, but all in all was much easier. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley.
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