Above her head was an aura of white fire. 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. ” “Dear me,” Anna laughed, “how unfortunate! What ought I to do? Should I be forgiven, do you think, if I were to go and hold that skein of wool for the old lady in the yellow cap?” “Don’t speak of her irreverently,” Brendon said, in an awed whisper. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence. Can I give him any message for you?” “Thank you,” Anna answered.
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