Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. It is difficult to express these things. I knew where I would go next: Florence. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. "You're only twenty—not legally of age.
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