A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. "And Jack?" "Gone too," sobbed his daughter. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica.
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