Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. “You cannot say that you did not expect me,” he answered. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. Shari was to be protected, to be dissuaded from driving in cars with older boys at night, to be steered away from dope and beer and certain friends who had no plans to work or to go to college. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London.
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