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Unformatted text preview: h. Gifford had loved; fretted, yes, but loved. Little girl with a conscience, on the floor of the library, "But should we just take these pearls?" All doomed, that generation, the Mayfair children of the time of science and psychology. Better to have lived in the time of crinolines and carriages and voodooiennes. We are past our time. Julien knew. But Mona wasn't doomed, was she? Now that was a witch for this day and time. Mona at her computer, chewing gum and typing faster than any person in the universe. "If there was an Olympic race for typing, I'd win it." And on the screen, all those charts and graphs. "See this? This is a Mayfair family tree. Know what I figured out?" Art and magic will triumph in the end, Julien had said. I know it. Was the computer art and magic? Even the way the screen glowed in the dark, and that little voice box inside that Mona had programmed to say in an eerie flat way: "Good morning, Mona. This is your computer talking to you. Don't forget to brush your teeth." It was perfectly frightening...
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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