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. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. She replied softly. No; I’m going to stick to the rules. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work.
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