She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. Her eyes flashed. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother.
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