The little old lady struck like a projectile upon the resounding chest of the foremost of these, and then Ann Veronica had got past and was ascending the steps. She wanted to kiss his feet. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully.
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