Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. It's two hundred pounds. Now keep still. 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. She ignored his question. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate.
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