Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs. And all this time perhaps you have been waiting, expecting to hear from 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. She did not forge a note. He shuddered. Maternal relations. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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