The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. I keep my finger on the pulse of things. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire.
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