’ Triumph leapt in Gerald’s chest. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. 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. And the food! She and Marina had done most of the cooking at home. “You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?” he asked. Saw the villain through the keyhole. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy. And, incidentally, check on that unfortunate young fellow Kimble.
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