Tell me, Sir," he added, advancing towards the knight, "tell me has this man spoken falsely?— Tell me my mother is alive, and do what you please with me. 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. "He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. . "What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. ’ ‘I imagine it must be a relief to you, after so lucky an escape.
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