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. “After all,” he said, “I am not sure that you are not a very material person. He brought his mother to call, and as you know the Countess goes scarcely anywhere. ” “Yet you are very young. She was beautiful once, Lucia. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. But it's confounded inconvenient. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead.
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