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. “It was my sister Anna. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort. The investigators should have thought to check inside the garbage can. Don’t you know I disinherited the rogue?’ ‘This we knew, milor’,’ said Valade. What you’re after is too risky. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt.
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