They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. ‘What do we do now?’ Gerald took a pace towards the girl. I don’t know anyone. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. This was his humiliation as well as hers.
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