I finally got my own set of house keys when I turned eleven. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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