Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. Wood, in indignant surprise. For a time she furnished the flat. They lived in a castle, the same place she had been turned in. Enter the house with your men. 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. Miss Mary and me, and Martha too sometimes.
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