Jackson. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. “He is not—I don’t like him. Sated, he rolled off her body and retired to his quarters. 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.
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