’ Lucilla gaped. Your life is like a funeral March. 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. We are alone and we can say and do what we please. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. . She had never been so happy to vomit. A white man takes his life in his hands. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. Why don’t you wait and see if you do truly love me, then I can believe you? Then I know I am worth waiting for. You want to think for a time, to be free for a time. She thought she had hidden well from him.
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