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. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. The occasion of all this confusion and dismay, meanwhile, remained perfectly motionless; his figure erect, and with somewhat of dignity in his demeanour. One night she apparently fell asleep. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence.
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