Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression. 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. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. McClintock would be on hand to tell her how and where to obtain this freedom.
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