Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project.
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