We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. I packed them with the other few things I owned. And then as we went down you’d try to explain. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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