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. Gerald watched her perambulations in silence, his heart wrung. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. The terror faded from her eyes. She told us that it was a disguise. You never can tell. But it’s only now I’m able to do it. Was she so fearful still? Roding shrugged and grimaced.
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