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. Major said you’d gorn. And, whatever you may think, I assure you, Jack's a downright goodnatured fellow. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips.
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