She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. On regaining his breath, he began to consider whither chance had led him; and, rubbing his eyes to clear his sight, he perceived a sombre pile, with a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. The Ragged Edge.
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