" "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. 9. ’ ‘Sir!’ called Trodger, as the captain began to lead the young lady off. 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.
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