I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. 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. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. She got up and unlocked the door. “Your affectionate “FATHER.
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