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That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. ‘Let’s see now. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. A silence ensued. That was life. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. " Still the voice was without emotion; calm, colourless.
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