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I clenched my teeth. "I am nineteen, madam."

My silence implied that I knew it, though I did not feel any brighter, happier or cleaner.

"Doesn't a good story revive the poetry of our actual lives?" He wiped the rim of his cap with a handkerchief of yellow silk enriched at one corner with needlework.

"Yess, sir, you are!" I retorted. "Move to that wagon! And if you take one step out of common time you'll never take another."

"Good-morning," I murmured.

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