Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. 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. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. ‘At least I couldn’t say for sure. "I see him!—row for your life!" "That's the way to miss him, master," replied Ben coolly.
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