I wonder. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. ” “Your knowledge of our ways,” he murmured “is profound. ’ No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally. 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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