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Unformatted text preview: ying, and I want you to know I loathe conformity in any form." Again his gentle .beguiling laughter. "How did you get to be a high prole?" She'd pushed it. "Where do I go to sign on?" "You can't sign on, Mona," he'd answered. "A high prole is born a prole. He is a fire fighter's son who has made plenty of money. A high prole can mow his own grass any time he likes. He can wash his own car. Or he can drive a van when everybody keeps telling him he ought to drive a Mercedes. A high prole is a free man." What a smile he had given her. Of course he was laughing at himself a little, in a weary sort of way. But he liked to look at her, that she could see. Yes, indeed, he did like to look at her. Only some weariness and some sense of propri- ety held him in check. "Sounds good to me," she'd said. "Do you take off your shirt when you mow the grass?" "How old are you, Mona?" he'd asked her playfully, cocking his head to one side. But the eyes were completely innocent. "I told you, thirteen,&q...
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- Spring '10