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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. “You see, daddy, I don’t think it IS preposterous. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. We may be all murdered in this unprotected place, and nobody be the wiser. “Steady on!” he cried.
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