" That was true, thought Spurlock. 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. When she released him he ran down the beach for a stick which he fetched and laid at her feet. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. "I thought as much," continued Jonathan. " As he said this, a slight noise was heard without.
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