He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. “Well, you’ve seen the kitchen and the dining room, but did I show you the basement?” He asked. Jonathan is capable of anything. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. Mike chortled. This foster child’s name was Mary Lucia Iovelli, and we have photographic documents of a woman who looks exactly like you, dear.
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