Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. "By George!" he exclaimed. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. The Oriental has no equivalent. 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. \"Cool. ” The two congregated instantly.
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