. Wood heard the cry. 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. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind.
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