Twenty-one, twenty-two. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. ‘Ah, the tragedy. ” She looked at him quizzically.
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