’ ‘Lord, yes,’ agreed Gerald, in mock horror. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady. I’m not a psycho. 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. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. “Are we interrupting anything?” “No!” Martin jumped slightly.
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