He had not remembered her as looking so small. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. 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. Blueskin answered by dashing his head violently against the flagged floor. Professing to stand between the robber and the robbed, he himself plundered both. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way.
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