Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. If he decided to watch television upstairs with his mother, she would probably retire before he did, but she was a light sleeper. This is a mere boy. I do not know anything of him since I have fourteen years, and that he sent me to Blaye to be a nun. ” “Anything except that,” he murmured.
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