19:07 

The Goldfinch,Donna Tartt

Morgan C. Hoax
тот, кто получает пощёчины

The dark-haired boy scowled and sank deeper in his seat. He reminded me of the homeless-looking kids who stood around passing cigarettes back and forth on St.Mark’s Place, comparing scars, begging for change-some torn-up clothes and scrawny white arms;same black leather bracelets tangled at the wrists. Their multi-layerd complexity was a sign I couldn’t read,though the general import was clear enough: different tribe, forget about it,I’m way too cool for you, don’t even try to talk to me.Such was my mistaken first impression of the only friend I made when I was in Vegas, and-as it turned out-one of the great friends of my life.

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