But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. She decided to call in the help of Teddy Widgett, or, failing him, of one of his sisters. 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. But, perhaps Mr. I promise not to do it again. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. I can’t.
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