"Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. It’s a damned hard thing to do. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. 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.
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