She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. 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. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep. And now the fiend Gosse had taken even that away from her. She even had books by H. White, my landlady, believes his story. He resolved to judge for himself. .
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