"Your boast, you see, was a little premature, Mr. “I heard nothing,” he declared, “and my ears are good. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen.
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