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. "You didn't spend it?" "I never intended to spend it—any more than I really intended to steal it. But they were too late. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. But you’ve got to lend me forty pounds.
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