Dinner was served at 5:30. 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 suspected a trap. Spurling in alarm. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet.
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