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I don't know; I really don't know," she found herself repeating. Miss Mary to the life. “It is Michelle, John. “Some day,” she answered. He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. . . Hill lost a little of his truculency. It is you who took my name, not I yours.
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