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. I did not know you spoke Kanaka," he broke off. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. "Is it you?" "It is," replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords.
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