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Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. Words were given with their original meaning, without their ramifications. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. A deadlock. Her parents have more money than God. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity.
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