The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility.
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