They were both dressed in every respect alike. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. 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. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. Yet I shall think of you to-day. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness.
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