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. "Why you pretended not to recognize the photograph of the young fellow you toted around these diggings all day yesterday. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. We went our ways. Another labyrinth in hell!" A smile broke over the trader's face. Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed.
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