I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. 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. I haven't much money; I don't know how much it is going to cost me to reach Hartford; so I fixed over a couple of my mother's dresses. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. Wasting no time, he crossed straight to the shutters and opened them. Let us proceed with our tale. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober.
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