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. “Thank you. If only Gerald would come. Mr. God bless you, anyhow!" she added, with a spontaneity which surprised Sister Angelina into uttering an individual gasp. Now, more and more, we’re going to be interested in them, to be curious about them and—quite mildly-experimental with them. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence.
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