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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. She received into her slack grasp the pistol and dagger, only half aware of taking them. F. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping.
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