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. To surrender himself to the law, to face trial and imprisonment, was out of the question. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. Have you got someone in mind for me?" "Finish your breakfast and I'll tell you the story. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. Unlocking it, he entered the chamber, which by no means belied its external appearance.
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