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. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. She writhed in ecstasy as she wrapped her legs around his waist, then raised her knees to his shoulders. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on.
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