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. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. I am bothered. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. “We will convince him now to the contrary,” Annabel answered. V. “But that’s quite different,” replied Anna.
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