The teacher turned towards the blackboard to inscribe the names of Capulet and Montague. I could tell it was Italian, you see. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. ’ Then she jammed her hat on her head all anyhow and ran from the room.
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