Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. It drives one mad at times. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. But did you ever hear of a djinn in a blue-serge coat? Stitched in!" Something like this was always rushing into his throat; and he had to sink his nails into his palms to stop his mouth. Horrible doubts assailed her.
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