He's more like a lord than—" As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room. 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. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. " He departed, musing. That's worth something to me; for I don't mind paying for revenge. "Were it not for that, he would indeed be a blessing and a comfort to me. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands.
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