I saw him lying on the footway. I asked him to take me away, and hide me. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. 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. Fas du tout. But there are ways to learn more than a nun would teach. You simply can't get good oil down there, so I must husband the few drams I carry. Let us have no more of this humbug. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said.
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