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. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. “Does he know that I am involved with someone?” “Of course he knows. ” He could feel a small bump where he knew a cavity of smooth flesh should reside.
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