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“Come upstairs,” she said, “and I will show you your room. They don’t know who did it, actually. “Thank you. ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. It did not take a mind reader to glean that she had suddenly gained the boy’s obsessive attention. I am the cause of his ill-usage. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all.
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