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. This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. Stanley,’ I said. But you couldn't. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that. Remember that.
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