Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. 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. “I know. “Yes. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. "So much the better," rejoined Sir Rowland. But that possibility had been anticipated. His face was very serious.
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