It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. 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. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. .
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