“I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know. ” “Did it hurt when we did it?” His voice rose, inflamed with worry.
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