“You remind me of a little blue stone I had once. You’re never going to believe this, by the way. 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. All concerned in the dark transaction must have perished. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'.
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