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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 make a game with me, I think. “In a sense—yes. You refuse me your confidence. ‘You see, it’s difficult to do a service for someone when you don’t know who they are, or what they’re up to. "Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. I told him that I would help stage your kidnapping. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why.
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