“Silly!” he remarked after a pause. 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 don't see how this is to be effected, unless you yourself were present at the time," said Wood, glancing suspiciously at the speaker. Go away!” “Why kill this one, Lucia? She shall be missed.
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