“So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. It is no good. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said.
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