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. I heard only after it was all over. " "What for?" demanded the turnkey. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. "So, wanton, I have found you!" "Wanton! Why, you infernal liar!" cried Spurlock, striking at the arm. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane.
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