I. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. People hounded him about the disappearances mercilessly for weeks after the concert, first the police, then the Becks, then people from school. What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. At least here she was safe.
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