" There was a roaring in her ears like that of angry waters. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. 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. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. “I want to be your friend,” he said.
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