"Where are you?" "Here," replied Mrs. ‘You have not the right. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. 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. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. She reached for the door handle. ‘Aye, sir.
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