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And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. 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. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. He gave glimpses of possibilities. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 23:54:43