“If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. It had been a big event for teens across town. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. “Will he die?” she asked. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue.
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