But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. 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. and those two beggars laughing as they breasted death! Girl, you've gone and done it!" He leaned down and caught her by the hand, and then raced with her to the bungalow. ‘Allow me.
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