Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words.
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