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. ” “That’s rather a pity,” Annabel said. "To be sure," returned Wild; "he's not only alive, but likely for life, if we don't clip the thread. Well, what about it?" "I accept. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. ’ Pottiswick sucked at his teeth through the gaps.
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