That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. She laughed. . ’ ‘Comment? You wish to murder me?’ ‘No, I wish to beat you,’ he retorted. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. "I disown you. She walked back to the car. .
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