She heard the television blaring away. The wings stopped. Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. "From Lady Trafford's, where I took the box.
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