The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated. 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. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. A small voice greeted her, hissing.
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