She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. . Sepulchre's clock struck eight. “Now she’s all hat and ideas,” he said, with an air of humor. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. Her canines had receded, but were still 166 prominent. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations.
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