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It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. ’ ‘Ah, but I have a special reason for doing so this time. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold.
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