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Their skins burned pimiento red, white people soaking up more than their share of the sun filled the Great Lawn from the far softball fields to the turtle pond. The air smelled of Brie, grapes, and Australian white wines. Normally, Winston would've avoided a mob of white folks as if it were, well, a mob of white folks. But this time, the iron lance of King Wladyslaw II's statue prodding him in the back, he plunged into the throng, settling between the tartan blankets of two Upper East Side prepp
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― Tuff
― Tuff
