’ ‘It was so,’ said Valade, becoming a trifle more fluent. She did not speak to John in the week of school left after the Prom. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. “Oh, it is okay. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father. ‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled. Wood. But at the word “home” she turned again. After all, Hilary must be near returned by now.
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