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. The only difference between the officers of Newgate and their brethren was, that they had enormous bunches of keys at their girdles, while the latter had left their keys at home. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. She would end alone. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. A deadlock. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision.
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