I—well, I lost my temper. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. 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. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. How am I supposed to rent an apartment when I cannot legally buy cigarettes? I couldn’t use you. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me.
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