I could tell it was Italian, you see. Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed herself forward. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. 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. 92 She did not notice the police car sitting near the Beck house until they were pulling into the driveway. A shiver slid down inside her.
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