A familiar figure was making his way towards them. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. Many’s the bullets I’ve dug out of fellows in my time. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. ‘Wait for me.
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