“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Divers plans and figures were chalked upon the walls; and the spaces between them were filled up with an almanack for the year; a godly ballad, adorned with a rude wood-cut, purporting to be "The History of Chaste Susannah;" an old print of the Seven Golden Candlesticks; an abstract of the various Acts of Parliament against drinking, swearing, and all manner of profaneness; and a view of the interior of Doctor Daniel Burgess's Presbyterian meeting-house in Russell Court, with portraits of the reverend gentleman and the principal members of his flock. Glad to get back, I’m sure,” he said briskly. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother.
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