Our ideal had fallen. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. Murder had become nothing to her. "The devil you have!" thundered a voice from behind, that filled the apprentice with dismay. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide. .
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