The atmosphere at dinner was not propitious. He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. Do sit down, dear boy. 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. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. "What's to be done next?" cried Blueskin, returning to Rachel, who was standing with Edgeworth Bess near the door.
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