" The Wastrel rushed. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. He also had Janine’s daughter, Traci, who he just couldn’t leave alone after she reached puberty, when she grew a small set of underdeveloped breasts. " The doctor was in the middle fifties, gray and careworn, but with alert blue eyes and a gentle mouth. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her.
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