"I'm not worth it. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. “You are in trouble,” he said. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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