Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. John stared palely. He was consumed with desire. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. You do not believe me.
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