” She looked thoughtfully into the fire. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase.
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