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Show 77, Jeffries, Islamorada the glare ice, and the little lights of the beetle coming, and he was in a skid, the small car went wide; he swore he could see the driver grinning and it was over, Dory and the stingray pointing harmlessly north, where the other made his way through the silent snow. Oh that was beautiful, he thought, great driving, strange little man, you're holding down the metropolitan insurance rates, come back and I'll buy you a cup of coffee. . . Now running west on the expressway, Dorian delights again in the smallness of this town. Years before, home in Pittsburgh, when he'd found the opportunity to squire a rich girl, he'd ride long tunnels out to Mount Lebanon, or motor over the hills to Fox Chapel, but Tiretown was less than a microcosm of a large city, more along the traditional American plan of factory, row houses and great house on the hill. A matter of a few miles riding up and over the old neighborhoods and the expressway carries him out to where the yellow barrels appear suddenly in the snow, here the new highway abruptly ends, home once again in white America. Fairlawn Heights. Following the line of Tudor homes to a red-haired Rapunzel high in her tower |