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. ’ Disappointment flooded her. Leave Martin Chen and his family alone. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. 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. " "Ha!" ejaculated the other. ’ Mrs Sindlesham abruptly sat up straighter in her chair. Do you mind talking to some one else.
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