" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. 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 still kicked herself for it. “I am sure you will marry Nigel sooner or later, and then all your work will be thrown away.
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