I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. “I don’t know. Our land brings us in nothing. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. 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. Loneliness. I should have gone mad without it.
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