Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. She spoke with many other high schoolers while reveling in her new popularity. She is more dear to me than anything else. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands.
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