” “Why not?” she asked quietly. “You know about my scandalous past?” “Very little. I am going to ask him to finish it. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. 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. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. But supposing he is? Supposing he made but one misstep? Your island would be a haven of security.
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