CHAPTER X. 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. "How very like it is!" "Not so strange, surely," laughed Thames, "that a picture should resemble the person for whom it's intended. ‘To see Charvill. And, though it's a long time ago, I feel as sore on the subject as ever. Montague Hill.
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