He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. Her eyes quizzed the major. 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.
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