She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. Decidedly this was imbecile. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming.
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