His blood would be sweet with it. 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. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day. After all, she was a consummate actress. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible.
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