She placed the freezer back on top of Ray Plote's old hiding place, now his permanent resting place. “He couldn’t look me in the face and say it,” said Ann Veronica. They are not your children, they never were. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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