When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. 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. The tapstress was full of curiosity; but she appeared more easy than the others. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet. "No," replied Jonathan, moodily. Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you. "Where did you find it!" asked Wood. “May you have as much good fortune as you deserve, but not enough to make you forget us.
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