He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. Would you tell her … now?" his eyes flaming with mockery. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him.
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