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. If you could see how it gives them souls, women who have taken things for granted, who have given themselves up altogether to pettiness and vanity. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. He might miss at this distance. The door popped open with a sigh.
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