. His name is Taber?" "Howard Taber. You mustn’t do things like that. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. You're an angel of goodness. 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.
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