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. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. The entrance was concealed between two huge boulders within a clump of trees, and was now so overgrown that no one who did not know of its existence could ever hope to find it. . What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender.
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