She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. ” One Friday, as she was sitting in the fifth row two seats left of center in Sixth Period Study Hall, a dull hard object thudded against the back of her head. 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. I could always 108 tell right away whether my new foster home was going to be good or bad. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me.
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