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This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. We're lost. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. ‘I am fascinated. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend.

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