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Whenever Ah Cum (whose normal stride was sufficient to keep him at the side of her chair) pointed out something of interest, she had to strain the cords in her neck to focus her glance upon the object. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. It was an impulse. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. Presently, however, a sudden movement occurred, and disclosed his features, which were those of a young man of nearly his own age. The mighty concourse became for a moment still.
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