Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. " "Perhaps I read of it somewhere. That is what my mother used to call me.
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