“Because I hate you!” She spat. 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 his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Why had he offered her that kiss on board The Tigress? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment. “Yes, John.
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