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“Well,” she achieved at last. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. There's another lad at the gate waiting for him—the same who was here just now, that Sir Rowland was speaking of, who fastened up the jewelcase for her ladyship. The few whites he had ever known generally offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. 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. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. “Why not? It might amuse me.
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