She entered the kitchen. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. E. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. 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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