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Unformatted text preview: tic better than her attic, and I knew in my sorrow that I would die in this room, very soon. I didn't have to tell her. I felt her soft hand on my forehead, trying to cool it. I felt the silken weight of her palm on my eyelids. And the words of the poem, she said them over and over. And I with her, until I knew every verse. By dawn, she did not need to correct me any longer. I didn't dare to write it down. My evil Mary Beth will burn it, I told her. Tell the others. Tell Carlotta. Tell Stella. But my heart was so sick. What would it matter? What would happen? What could the words of the poem mean? "I've made you sad," she said gently. "Child, I was already sad. You have given me hope." I think it was late Thursday afternoon that Mary Beth finally took the hinges from the door and opened it. "Well, they are going to bring the police in here," Mary Beth said by way of excuse, very practical and nondramatic. Her way of doing things. "You tell them they can't lock her up again. Sh...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10