It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. 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. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. " "Not now," returned Thames, impatiently.
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