"Where are you going?" she asked. Lucy knocked again. Ennison, or any other young man. 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. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever. " "That's what troubles me," rejoined Ben.
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