His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. If you want advice, your aunt is the person. She turned back to Gerald, holding out her hand. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. “Can you spare me a moment?” he asked. .
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