"Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight.
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