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. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. "Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. " "I have often conjured up some frightful vision of the dead," murmured the knight, "but I never dreamed of an interview with the living.
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