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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. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. ‘Let go!’ ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Gerald demanded. "Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount.
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