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. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. She felt that with Capes near to her she would be content always to go on loving. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. It’s not fair to you.
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