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And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. "We work together no more. 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. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all. As soon as the latter beheld him, she uttered a loud scream, and fainted. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over.
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