She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Threw it out. Oh the back of her arm she found the faintest down of hair in the world. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. She had not anticipated such a response from her classmates, but knew to be drawing them with her self-consciousness as if they were bees to pollen.
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