"No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. It took her only two towns away, near the Arby’s where Mike worked. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were “fairish,” or “very fairish indeed,” or “high above the normal female standard,” hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. She spoke with many other high schoolers while reveling in her new popularity. She had always wondered when they would start being able to trace her kills, with their expanding systems of criminal databases and computers, and now it was starting to happen. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear.
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