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. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. ” “For the others,” Annabel said tearfully, “that is well enough. Wood. "He shan't go," cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand. And yet he knew clearly and definitely what he purposed to do, what the future would be. .
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