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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. "Stop thief!" roared Jonathan. "Ninny! What did we know about Father, except when he was around the house? But where is the girl? She said something about having tea with us. ‘She ought to be. Quite right. She did not know herself. They've heard quite enough for my purpose," he muttered, as his orders were obeyed, and the domestics excluded. We were worried. “I have learned that. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. However, if you must air your opinions—” “To-night, then, daddy!” He made an angry but conceivably an assenting noise, and then Ramage glanced back and stopped, saluted elaborately, and waited for them to come up. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike.
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