Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. Wood started to his feet. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare.
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