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. CHAPTER VIII. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. Austin, who had been evidently schooled by Wild, maintained a profound silence on this head. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood.
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