He unhooked it from the front clasp. Still, one never could tell. 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. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back.
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