What was to hinder me, if I had been so inclined, from directing them to your retreat?" "Enough," replied Darrell. 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. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs.
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