"When I am dead you will learn it. And tell Pottiswick to mend that lock we broke. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. I’ve got to run to get to my Study Hall. “Pray accept my apologies. You are afraid of kisses. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of.
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