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She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. “You’re splendid. I was resolved to see you. \" Mark was tall and skinny, a mop of brown hair over a pillar of freckles. It filled her with indefinable fear. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were.
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