I’m six hundred and forty-eight years old, John! I should have never seduced a young boy, let alone expected him to keep my secrets for me. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. He would always be her friend, too. Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non. Where is Father Spencer? I must have absolution. I’ve had a lot on my mind. .
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