” He smiled at her. It ought not to be much. 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. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right.
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