It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. Milky sunlight spilled on the floor. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. ” “I may come a little way, then?” he begged. 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. I am almost old enough to be your father. They had refused.
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