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 doors of several of the wards were thrown open for these parties, and as Jack passed, he could not help glancing at the wretched inmates. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image.
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