"I am so excessively fond of snuff. 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. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. But after all, Mrs. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. Before her was a great Gothic portal.
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