Mr. S. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. 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. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. As he hesitated, unable to make up his mind what to do for the best, a heavy rumbling on the cobbles penetrated his absorption. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. He kept that, but the rest. Well, one must hope, that was all. “It rests with them by the nature of things.
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