“My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. Sometimes I take innocent lives. just furtive meetings. My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. Lord, I am sixty. I trust that she will not misunderstand me. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece.
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