Them young prigs is all alike. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. “You will come back, won’t you?” He nodded cheerfully. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning.
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