82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away. ‘To see Charvill. .
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