“Why do you kill me?” Michelle asked. “Better state of mind,” she gasped. We are asking you questions today because Sheila and Mark McCloskey had a foster child who we assume was probably your natural mother. Would to God I had. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. Treat me as an elder brother, if you like. He was a philosopher.
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