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. " "Detained!" echoed Marvel. ‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it.
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