I found him lying like this, the bleeding partly stopped by this scarf, else he had been dead by now. But I don’t suppose you can understand. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. And some were adorned with engravings that struck her as being more vulgar and undesirable than anything she had ever seen in her life. But it's an odd case. 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.
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