At this gate two paths meet. Kneebone nodded. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. It was a dead calm. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. I don’t know why he was allowed into the system in the first place, but he had two kids of his own. How dreary it all looks. 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. She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening.
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