We can’t. 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. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Then you have altered not only that, but your manner of dressing it. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand.
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