"Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. I hope this is all. 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. Perhaps marriage hurt. From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. I thought you might like to see. “Of course you don’t. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. “But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking.
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