Spurlock halted in his tracks. "If Jack would come to my house, I'd contrive to hide him," remarked a buxom dame. 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. ’ ‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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