” He paced the room for a minute or two restlessly. 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. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. ‘Merci, dieu. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said.
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