Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. "Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. 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. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. ’ Saling coughed.
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