She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. 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. The great door of the Stone Hall was thrown open, and the sheriffs, preceded by the javelin-men, entered the room. “There wasn’t. " "You don't say so!" exclaimed Shotbolt.
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