It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. I trust that she will not misunderstand me. I've despatched him to the New Prison. Do you know anything of his friends? Is there any one for whom we ought to send?” “I know very little of him beyond his name,” Anna answered. 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.
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