Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. 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. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. you walking home?\" 3 She paused, stunned. And she defies me.
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