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The other day a well-known English novelist asked me how old I thought she was really.
“Well,” I say to myself, “since she has asked for it, she shall have it; I will be as true to
life as her novels.” So I replied audaciously: “Thirty-eight.” I fancied, if at all, on the side
of “really”. And I tremble She laughed triumphantly. “I am forty-three.” She said.