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“I refuse. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. “Was it really only this afternoon that I met you in St. 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 recognised Anna, and at once addressed her. Let me go my own way towards them.
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