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Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. She did not speak to John in the week of school left after the Prom. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. ’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. I am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me.
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