It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. Oh, to face facts! Gods! what a world it might be if people faced facts! Understanding! Understanding! There is no other salvation.
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