But, as soon as he perceived who it was, he roused himself, and glared fiercely at the intruder from under his bent brows. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. 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. ‘Go you through the passage and find the other door. " "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English.
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