Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. Books; an inexplicable hunger to be satisfied. "Release him," said Jonathan.
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