” One Friday, as she was sitting in the fifth row two seats left of center in Sixth Period Study Hall, a dull hard object thudded against the back of her head. “Should I leave? Sounds like she is running out of food. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. The coolies proceeded at a swinging, mincing trot, which gave to the suspended seat a dancing action similar to that of a suddenly agitated hangingspring of a birdcage. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. “Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination. They happen to a man. I shall lose my fees and the laced coat.
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