What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. 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. Whenever I feel particularly gregarious, I take the launch and run over to Copeley's and play poker for a couple of days. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered.
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