“Please don’t be sad. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. ” “Well?” “Lunch! I am hungry—tragically hungry. ’ A laugh escaped her. Or else I would have finished him.
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