” Courtlaw’s walking stick, which he had been handling, fell with a crash to the ground. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. I’m not a psycho.
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