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 suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. Upon this grateful animal she lavished that affection which was subtly repelled by its lawful object. I was always told my mother died the day I was born.
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