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‘I trust you were not altogether disgusted when I kissed you. I must go somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off. . Try something. 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. We were alike. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom.
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