“Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Is there anything you want?" She laid her hand on his forehead, and found it without fever. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth.
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