‘Jacques?’ she called. "Oh, yes!—for always!" He took her hands and pressed them upon his thrumming heart; and in this attitude they remained for some time. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. That really settles about that. After a while he spoke again. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen.
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