" Blueskin nodded, and left the room. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. Unexpectedly he found himself speeding toward the father. 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. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. My heart misgives me.
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