In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity. Why hadn't he admitted that he recognized the photograph? What instinct had impelled him swiftly to assume his Oriental mask? "Why?" asked O'Higgins. “I don’t know. "Won't be under an obligation.
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