’ ‘Get rid of the wench,’ Roding said brutally. When she spoke, her lips twitched. 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. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers.
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