“Go on!” she commanded. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. And Mr. . The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing.
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