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he house was open to me. It wasn't until I noticed that my
suitcases were gone (cute trick) that I realized I hadn't considered
leaving him--even during the worst part of last night. He didn't need
to take my clothes to keep me here, but still, it gives me a kind of
warm feeling that he did. He should know better, after last night.
I'll stay.
Well, that's enough for now. I have to get ready for him and I'm
tired of typing anyway. Wordstar says I did 27 pages. Stream of
consciousness writing and Mrs. Cooke's typing class, I guess. He'll be
home in another hour, and tomorrow is Saturday.
He seemed satisfied with what I wrote Friday. It's Sunday now; I
don't have time to tell you about Friday night and Saturday now.
Later, though. It looks like this is going to turn into a diary. In
fact, he said he was surprised I wrote so much. Still, he had me go
back and add in some stuff, like the part about my nipples. I hated
that. And some other stuff, too. I had to change the names, places,
etc., "to protect the innocent" (the guilty, actually) so it couldn't
be traced to us. So if anyone ends up reading this, it has been
edited. But not
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