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. ” “I thought I was old enough,” she gasped, between laughter and crying. There was a lot of that, John, a great deal of hunger. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him.
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