Wood," urged Jack. This was enough for the poor widow. Spit of your mother. Let—it—fall. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project. I have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a sense of humour. 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.
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