“Oh, damn!” he said. 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. "Here are some letters, which will let you see what a snake you've cherished in your bosom, you uxorious old dotard," said Blueskin, tossing a packet of papers to Wood, as he followed his leader. "You mustn't!" "Nothing can change that, Dawn Pearl. "I'll make a sketch, too," he said.
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