If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. The walls of the room were lined with shelves, on which were glass jars, retorts, countless bottles and many appliances of surgical science. She had never had a real doll. The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. “You must not. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. . She was alone with a deadly enemy. Mirrors.
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