Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. Kneebone said, just now. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends.
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