Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. Her head swam. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing.
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