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. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. ” Michelle said. She could think of nothing more to say. I was—I was a corespondent. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised.
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