She did this to please him. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. 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. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. CHAPTER I. ‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered.
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