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 see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. CHAPTER V. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin.
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