Yet there was nothing for her to do. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.
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