Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. “Can you spare me a moment?” he asked. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. "I believe he's gone," he said, returning to Jonathan. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. It's precisely what such a simpleton would do. I’ve bored you or something.
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