“You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. ‘You don’t know him. ’ ‘You ain’t never,’ gasped Pottiswick. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. I take their life. The larger problem at hand was drugging her foster sister, Shari, into a deep sleep. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it.
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