“Will he die?” she asked. Jackson?" said Wood, significantly. 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. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. You were only one room removed from the library, see. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. Its smooth surface soothed her nerves.
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