"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. Monsieur Charvill, he is also my cousin. “Did he tell you, Annabel?” “Yes. 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. C below. "They have ever since been deposited in a place of safety. ” “Nor I,” she remarked tersely. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him.
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