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Unformatted text preview: hat word, -whore, her cheeks flaming, and her hands clasped, her bobbed black hair fall- ing down around her face. "Oh, Mona, darling, I love you." "I know that, Aunt Gif, but please for the love of God and all we hold sacred, never refer to me as garden-variety anything, ever again!" Mona knelt on the flagstones for a long time, until the cold started to bother her knees. "Poor Antha," Mona whispered. She stood up, and once again smoothed her pink dress. She brushed her hair back off" her shoulders, and made sure that her satin bow was still properly pinned to the back of her head. Uncle Michael loved her satin bow, he had told her that. "As long as Mona has her bow," he'd said this evening, on the way to see Comus, "everything is going to be all right." "I turned thirteen in November," she'd told him in a whisper, drawing near to hold his hand. "They're telling me to turn in my ribbon." "You? Thirteen?"...
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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