The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. I’ve loved her for two years, I love her now. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. 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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