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If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. Pretty! Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights! “You shall tell me your faults,” said Manning. ” “Everything goes well with me,” he said, folding his arms under him and regarding Ann Veronica with the slightly projecting eyes wide open. She sings better perhaps.
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