"How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. “In self-defence I had to,” she answered. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. But one thing troubled him, and because of it he might never arrive on the beach. Wild. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen.
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