It was a moment before he recognised that the effect had been similar on all those present, including General Lord Charvill. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. He jumped back, cursing. 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.
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