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“What is it they call us?” muses the Inger Stevens seated across from Pearl. “Knockoffs? Copycats?”

“Kinkos,” says Pearl carefully.

“Kinkos.” She smiles (it is a brilliant smile). “How arcane. As if their own faces, tragedies of genetics, are something to be proud of.”

“How do you tell each other apart?” Pearl asks. “Not to be rude. But if you’re all perfect copies–”

“Not perfect. Not quite; that would be infringement of beautymark. We each choose a unique flaw–I have this dimple, you see?”

Pearl leans close, as for a moment, they’re surrounded by a passing swarm of Vivien Leighs.