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Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. “I can see you and Anna groaning and nodding your grave heads together. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible.
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