Meriem seized the receptacle as the possible container of extra
ammunition. Quickly she loosed the cords that held the canvas
covering about the box, and a moment later had raised the lid and
was rummaging through the heterogeneous accumulation of odds and
ends within. There were letters and papers and cuttings from old
newspapers, and among other things the photograph of a little girl
upon the back of which was pasted a cutting from a Paris daily--a
cutting that she could not read, yellowed and dimmed by age and
handling--but something about the photograph of the little girl which
was also reproduced in the newspaper cutting held her attention.
Where had she seen that picture before? And then, quite suddenly,
it came to her that this was a picture of herself as she had been
years and years before.
Where had it been taken? How had it come into the possession of
this man? Why had it been reproduced in a newspaper? What was
the story that the faded type told of it?
Meriem was baffled by the puzzle that her search for ammunition
had revealed. She stood gazing at the faded photograph for a time
and then bethought herself of the ammunition for which she had come.
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