When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. You didn’t even put the twelve words. It consisted, like pre-Roman Gaul, of three parts. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. What right had a young woman to possess the scarring and intimate knowledge of that dreg of human society, the beachcomber? CHAPTER II Ah Cum lived at No. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. The affair passed at one leap from a spree to a nightmare of violence and disgust. Half French. It was no marriage at all. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. This extraordinary child had opened up an old channel through which it was no longer safe to cruise. He cocked an eyebrow. “Your mother was a Gypsy. .
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