She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. She changed into a halter top and a pair of tight jeans herself, and let Lucy brush her long, glossy hair as they talked about mascara, schoolwork, and boys. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. .
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