“Ohmigod! You totally sounded like my grandmother just now!” Michelle exclaimed. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. He asked me out two days ago and I thought, hell, why not?” Michelle answered. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners.
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