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. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. ” “I thought I explained—” “Come home!” Ann Veronica shrugged her shoulders. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately. “Yes,” she said, very faintly.
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