The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. I’m six hundred and forty-eight years old, John! I should have never seduced a young boy, let alone expected him to keep my secrets for me. I have tried not to tell you—tried to be simply your friend. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father.
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