It hit her just above the knee. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. Ten thousand islands, and each one good for a night's rest. ’ She spoke with difficulty, holding down the rising emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.
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