Gerald saw her extract something and leapt aside, calling a warning to Hilary. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. 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. "Zounds! what's that!" he cried, as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them.
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