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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. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. In my search after strange characters, Mr. Now drop it. “Thank you, ma’am. ’ Then she whisked from the room, hearing Lucilla utter a delighted squeal as she closed the door behind her. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing.
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