That smirking girl staring back with her cigarette, that ugly short hair, the shapeless dress with its silly fringes and its shameless show of calf, frivolous before the great dark mass of Flamel Hall. Girls these days, says Edith. What they wear.
As if belief, whether ingrained or hard-won, was not deeply personal. As if it could be easily discussed in a loud pub filled with circumstantial acquaintances; acquaintances who were, in this case, Alia’s boyfriend’s drunken co-workers.
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