In the middle there was a gate. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. " "Surely, you haven't stolen it?" "Stolen's an awkward word. "I was born in the South Seas and I am on my way to America, to an aunt.
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