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. “What a little brick!” he murmured. The stags and oxen and things all have to fight for us, everywhere. I dare say it will be chattered about for weeks. ” He threw his head back. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. "Put it under my pillow," he said.
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