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. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. She was carefree. “Oh! please don’t lose yourself in a wilderness of secondary considerations,” she said. You are my slave—and such you shall continue.
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