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no one moved.
Then Harold lurched to his feet. His chair screamed against the polished floor. His face was crimson, the veins in his neck bulging as he pointed a trembling finger at me.
“You are a vicious, ungrateful child,” he roared. “We gave you everything. We fed you. We clothed you. We raised you in a house many people would kill for. To use this continue reading …
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