The Bell Jar
Sylvia Plath
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.
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In the dim light of the streetlamp that filtered through the drawn blinds, I could see the pin curls on her head glittering like the row of little bayonets.
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The eyes and the faces all turned themselves toward me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room.
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