“I can get you,” Mr. Wagstaff. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently. "And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?" cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment. 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. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger.
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