My son went down after his death. 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. I have slept with it under my pillow. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own.
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