’ ‘What about the lad?’ said the captain suddenly. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. "You are," replied Kneebone. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. Surely it was a dream. 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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