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. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. ” “It’s impossible. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. Miss Miniver looked over her glasses at her friend almost balefully.
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