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 if sometimes I grow heady—and it's in the blood— remind me of this day when you took me out of hell—a thief. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve.
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