‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. He not only did this, but supplied him with an ointment which allayed the swelling of his limbs, and crowned all by furnishing him with a jug of excellent ale. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime.
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