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. "I have saved the executioner a labour, by cutting his throat," replied Blueskin. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. He only stays here for you, hoping in vain.
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