CHAPTER XXIII. Using the shirt, she cleaned away the blood. God, we suck. ” “What?” He asked. ” “What do you mean—by too late?” he demanded. . A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. " Jackson treated this menace with a loud laugh of derision. 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.
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