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. ’ Annoyance sent Melusine leaping to her feet. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. "Lean on me," said Jack. "No," replied Jonathan, moodily. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo.
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