Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. I shouldn't talk like that. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. I mean I’m not a good specimen of a woman. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. 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.
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