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The Last Day Of My Childhood

That year looked the same as all of my earlier years. I was eleven years old, in my last semester of primary school. Different from most of the other similar-aged kids, I was quiet and obedient, never made any trouble: At school, I was a good student. Each class, I sat straight-backed in my seat, listening and interacting carefully, wrote down every note that I thought necessary; when my father taught me and my younger brother that the best way to practice our hand writings was following the dictionary, I did. So, all of my homework and quiz papers were written neatly and beautifully, like a piece of calligraphic work; after school, I always walked back home accompanied by a few classmates. They loved to listen to me telling them stories—I had read a lot more books than them. They scrambled to walk closer to me, they repeated my stories to the others; plus, I made sketches, especially those beautiful ladies’ sketches: Some were reading, some were playing instruments, and some others we

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