The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door. “Is it okay if I go to the Junior Prom with John Diedermayer?” She asked Cathy in a low voice.
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