\" Michelle met her at her locker, right on schedule, carrying a backpack so overstuffed it was its own conversation piece. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. His feet would have the firm texture of his hands. Her personal maidservant, the first she had ever had in her life, was joyful for her. It's only right that his people should know where he is and what has happened to him. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now.
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