She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “Why?” He inquired. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. Wood had prevented him from paying much attention to the previous scene. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. I am yours for the making over. .
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