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. “Go on,” he said. “May I enquire,” he asked smoothly, “in what way my appearance contributes to your amusement? If there is a joke I should like to share it. My son went down after his death. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful.
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