“An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. Sir John, who was standing outside, looked past him at the girl still sitting in the shadow. “But your sister?” he asked. “You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. ” “Do what?” “Oh!—anything. 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.
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