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... d of my breathing more than the shouting.
My chest was heaving—lungs burning, like I’d been running, even though I was just standing there. Blood dripped from the lower edge of the small brick clutched in my hand, the red thick and dark, trailing down to stain my already filthy sleeve.
The nuns stood in front of me, their black silhouettes blurred in the edges of my vision. They were yelling—I knew that. Their mouths were moving wildly, hands flying, fingers pointing. But I could ...
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