“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. “Do you think that it is kind of you, Miss Pellissier,” he said, almost roughly, “to ignore your friends so? In your heart you know quite well that you could pay Sydney or me no greater compliment than to give us just a little of your confidence. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. The less she lived, in fact, the better.
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