\" Michelle met her at her locker, right on schedule, carrying a backpack so overstuffed it was its own conversation piece. I saw the blood come as he rolled over. “Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection.
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