She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. ” “Much better,” she agreed. 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. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. " "He has done too much already," answered the widow. "Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father," interposed Thames. He may have resources of which we know nothing," the doctor added optimistically.
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