But Gerald wouldn’t hear of it. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. ‘Unheard of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one of his doxies. ” He thought. 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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