Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. “In it lies the secret poison he used to turn you into an Oracle. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. 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.
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