Small blame to her. “She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. Die, indeed! We’re going to do work; we’re going to unfold about each other; we’re going to have children. Sheila grabbed the gun and laughed hysterically, brandishing the weapon and baying like a bear. I get my driver's license tomorrow. 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.
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