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. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. He talked very little and rather absently. "My name is Kneebone," added the portly personage, stepping forward. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother.
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