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 young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it.
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