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. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. ‘Aye, that she was. But I do think that if a girl is to feel comfortable about it they should start fairly equal.
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