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. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. . The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. ” He sighed. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured.
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