She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. “But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. In a moment he was beside her. 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. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. Good riddance.
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