They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. You’re a lady. 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. "Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave. \"Want your pencil back?\" She asked him warily, squinting. .
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