“Of course you don’t. There is no Heaven for your mother. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner, he remarked: “These young people shoot up, Stanley. By the time John returned with popcorn and a large Coke, the theater had filled up with high-school kids. A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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