His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. ” He passed his hand wearily over his forehead. I’m a female thing at bottom. " "Rely on me," rejoined Kneebone. The enclosure by which it was surrounded was about twelve feet high; the under part being composed of taken planks, the upper of a strong iron grating, surmounted by sharp iron spikes. 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.
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