when I was five. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ” “And mine,” murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. The thing is done. She refused to sleep in the same room with him one night, kicking him in the shins. A.
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