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. "Oh! no—no—no," cried Winifred, "I cannot believe it. "Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet.
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