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. “Every one. I tried. ’ ‘How could he when he didn’t even handle it himself? Went off, I told you, and left it all to me. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. .
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