“This is the slavery of the veiled life. Come with me, Langley, and bring the lantern. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. ‘Don’t tell me. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it.
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