Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. 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. ” John’s father said, barely masking his pride as he showed Lucy into the small room where John had a several pieces of dismantled electronic equipment wired to each other and dozens of model planes on shelves across every wall. She put back her hood in a determined way. That is what I don't understand. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things.
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