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" "I shouldn't mind ridding him of her," said Blueskin, gruffly; "and if she comes in my way, may the devil seize me if I don't make short work with her!" "You forget," rejoined Jack, sternly, "I've just said I'll have no violence—mind that. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. I'm no mollycoddle. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Sheppard, eagerly. 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.
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