We have to hang about in the interval. ‘Do not be imbecile. ” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. Spurling, drily. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key.
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