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She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the “Unusual. Sooner or later she’s going to run away again, and I want Frith to follow her and find out where she’s living. 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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