"What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. 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. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. ” He examined the emerald in his hands and placed it carefully on the glass table. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him.
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