This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. ‘Me, I have a name. A mutual recognition took place at the same instant between the stranger and this individual. What might it have been?’ Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly. 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. She was so interested, and this was such a relief from the trudging anxiety of her search for work, that she went on for a whole week as if she was still living at home.
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