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. “Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. Pull over there. But I must—I ought—” “I MUST talk about this. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say.
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