"What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. " "Blueskin, clear the room," cried the Master; "these gentlemen would be private. It’s artificially chance. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again.
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