"Zounds!" cried Kneebone, furiously. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. And there are other guides. 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. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. There is nothing but your pride which stands between us.
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