It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. Her answer was not quite ready. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. " His daughter, however, anticipated him. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. She knew that babies came from the womb; her womb had fallen out with her baby.
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