“How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. 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. ‘Quick, Gérard. How would he act when he learned that it had vanished? She gathered up the manuscripts and restored them to the envelope. ’ ‘Tchah! Better a doubtful welcome here than a confounded French convent. “My Mom never gets a good night’s sleep.
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