But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance.
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