“You have the temperament,” he said. But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it. Mike chimed in. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. You’re tired, of course. I think he got sick of us and he disappeared not one week later. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections.
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