There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. " "How do you spell the last name?" He spelt it. 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. "Why, you don't think as how they're crimps, do you?" Ben inquired. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. She parted the curtains to find him standing there.
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