” She propped herself up on the massive oaken post of the bed, feeling the paralysis tingle her legs as it left them ever so slowly. . His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Smith obeyed. 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.
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