Come on. 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. “Some day you will be my wife, and it would not be well for either of us to remember that in these unhappy days you and I were separated. My reception at West Kensington you know of. . I could resist the tempter now, I am strong in health,—in mind.
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