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. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. " So saying, he unlocked the door and strode out of the room. ’ He thought Roding gave him an odd look, but his next question was already in his head. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. Quick! Quick!" The order was only just given in time. She helped him take it off. "Because—because I'm always distrustful of a priest," rejoined Jonathan.
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