"Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. 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 mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. “I’ll be here at one in the morning. She despises one-piece swimsuits, she calls them ‘old hag bathing dresses’ no matter how low-cut they are.
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