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. “So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked. "No offence, I hope, my dear Mrs. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. "Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye. Until the last moment she was afraid.
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