We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot. 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. We needn’t try and give ourselves airs. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. ” “I’m a married man.
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