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. " A deep indignant groan followed. ‘It’s my belief she is a nun. Not up here, I think. " "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence.
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