My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. ’ ‘No, miss,’ cut in Kimble. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. “Where are they?” She looked around. Still no sound. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters.
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