When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. When I've escorted you proud fool to his new quarters, I'll proceed to the Mint and look after Jack Sheppard.
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