Besides, I acted for others, and not for myself. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. 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 remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed.
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