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. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. "Your father said so before you," replied Jonathan, malignantly; "and yet it has tarried thus long. She touched it, and her gaze lifted. ‘It is all too probable that she would wish to change into lay clothing to escape recognition.
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