“I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. 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. Like a trollop in heat. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. I'm about to ring for supper.
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