She loved to dress the Fritz and Anna in outfits that she stitched from discarded velvet dresses. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. I have—run away. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn.
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