She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. 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 had not remembered her as looking so small. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that.
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