A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. ’ ‘Pah!’ ‘Precisely.
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