Kneebone, he took his departure. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. “These are her rooms,” she said. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. You disgust me. 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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