‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. 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. Valade accorded the major’s greeting a brief nod and gave his attention back to St Erme. I suppose I believe in God.
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