It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. She entered and approached the bunk. “I’ve been thinking—all the afternoon. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters. In these waters the shell has about given out. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of.
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