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. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. Though I’ll wager she used this passage, and we certainly ought to investigate it. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.
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