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. “I’m really very sorry. Well, I'd no idea," she continued, pursuing her ruminations as she left the room, "that people of quality laughed so. Whence had she come: whither was she bound? A temporary congestion in the street held up the caravan for a spell; and Ah Cum looked backward to note if any of the party had become separated. He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas.
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