" "It is too late," returned Jack, sullenly; "I can't be honest if I would. I will be very well without him. 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. ” The note of his own voice exasperated him. Hogarth," remarked Jack, dejectedly. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?" "Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely.
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