\" \"Not this Saturday, sweetie. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. 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. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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