The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. When other kids got sick at school, they always had Moms who would rescue them within minutes.
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