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by Andrew Neiderman, ghostwriter for V. C. Andrews
p.8 She was as tall as I was, about five feet ten or so, and she was wearing a dark blue uniform jacket with brass buttons and a pair of blue slacks. I thought she wasn't much more than nineteen or twenty years old. She was wide in the hips and small on top with narrow shoulders, making it look like two different bodies had been slapped together when God was busy attending to other matters.
p.25 Her voice echoed off the cement walls and then died as if her words were smashed to bits, the letters splattered and then raining down to the dank concrete floor.
p.209 I couldn't imagine anything more lonely than to die among strangers, to have no one who was more than just professionally interested in what was happening to you. You would know that when it was over, they would shake their heads and most likely within the same hour, maybe the same minute, return to their normal, daily lives. Some who witnessed your passing might not even remember to mention it to anyone afterward. You were, after all, just a statistic.