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. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. "I can," replied Trenchard. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. The sharp point of the sword at the girl’s throat bit sideways.
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