"A doctor? What he needs is a good jolt of aromatic spirits of ammonia. Hetty, who had periods of lucid expression, put the thing for her from her pillow. Always at your service. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. 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. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down.
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