“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. In order to make Mr. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He's going to ask you to Prom. You have told me that you cared. But let that verse tell my secret. Never had he been so intrigued.
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