I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. Some of your sex, I mean. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then. For it was not a good thing to like one man too much when one was going to marry another.
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