“I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. ” He put his hands in his pockets, his mouth puckered to a whistle, and he went to the door of the outer preparation-room and stood there, looking, save for the faintest intensification of his natural ruddiness, the embodiment of blond serenity. On Friday Michelle found Lucy while waiting in line by the soda machine. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. 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. "Come Bess,—no whimpering.
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