“Who, me? I scare you?” He asked. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. ’ ‘Yes, do. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English.
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