Such stories were increasingly heard in English society. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. 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. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. Speaking of mean, you watch out for Kate Bitchster.
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