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Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. ‘You could have fetched me home. Mr. ” “I’m afraid it can’t. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. She would be healthy, too, and vigorous. Gerald, intent on his trail, ignored it. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. ” “Clear out?” cried Hetty. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. Yes, this was a little better. I will dedicate my books to you.
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