Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. 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. “Great, Cathy. And Mother trusted him. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street.
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