And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. "How very like it is!" "Not so strange, surely," laughed Thames, "that a picture should resemble the person for whom it's intended. He could hardly open the envelope, he trembled so. Move. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin.
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