In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. 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. I mystify you; I can see that. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW.
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