Only she is not Madame Valade at all. ” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. She could feel her face turning beet red. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. "I'll cut down him who opposes me. “Mean as an old mule, too. She remained stonily in the middle of the hallway until the spinsters' door shut them from view … for ever. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat.
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