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. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. She bathed frequently with ash and lye soap stolen from traders. “Great, Cathy.
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