They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. In the retrospect she was amazed to think how things had gone to pieces, for at the outset she had been quite prepared to go home again upon terms. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. Sebastian drank deeply and quickly of her blood. ‘Allow me.
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