” They returned to the crypt. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. . Guns were impossible. 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. Stanley, “very strongly. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. That’s the fact of the matter.
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