“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. "Not that I know of," replied the carpenter, who had in some degree recovered his confidence. The vengeance of the assailants did not stop here. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful.
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