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. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. " "There is a great art in it, if you did," quoth he. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. . “I feel shabby and disgraced. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him.
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