The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. ’ *** Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen. That would be an unkind twist of fate. ‘To find what?’ demanded Gerald. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement.
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