My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. "Where?" she cried. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. How could she tell him of the evil that drew her and drew her, as a needle to the magnet?—the fascinating evil that even now, escaped as it was, went on distilling its poison in her mind? "Yes, yes!" said the doctor. “A wonderful piece of work,” he declared.
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