" "I don't care for that," replied Jack. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Then she moved towards the door. God, we suck. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. . "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. Here one might live the life of golden days.
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