On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Both these ladies possessed considerable personal attractions. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. “What?” He replied. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. His eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy; he let out a sigh. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. 1.
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