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She held out her hand frankly. "Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. If you can imagine it, I survived it. Capes came back into her mind. Life is morality—life is adventure. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Don’t imagine that. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. "But it is much to me.
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