Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. She found her foster father and Mike still awake, playing high stakes UNO at the dimly lit kitchen table. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked. . ‘Aye, sir.
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