She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. Or felt it. “Do you like my dress?” “Yes, the dress is beautiful, but you are much more beautiful than any dress. “Then you—you will?” A long pause. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. He rose, steadied himself, then walked out of the dining room. Fifty pupils.
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