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Unformatted text preview: ightgowns," he said. He made a halfhearted little gesture towards the open bathroom door. "I'll find them, Uncle Michael. Go back to bed." "You're not really scared, are you, honey?" Too innocent. "No, Uncle Michael," she said, "you go back to sleep." He stared at her for a long moment, as if he could not even concen- trate on the words she spoke. But he was determined to be protective, determined to worry appropriately. "If you get scared . . ." he said. "I won't, Uncle Michael. I was teasing you." She couldn't help smiling. "I'm the thing to be afraid of, most of the time." He couldn't repress a smile at that either. He shook his head and went out, throwing her one last very blue-eyed and adorable glance in which fire burned up the drugs for a moment, and then he closed the door. The bathroom had a small pretty gas heater. She turned it on imme- diately, There were dozens of thick white towels on the wicker shelf. Then she found the flannel nightgowns, in rows on the...
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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