Chapter XXIX MONTAGUE HILL PLAYS THE GAME The man opened his eyes and looked curiously about him. “After all, there are great things left in the world for you. We are not animals. " "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. ” Mike parroted in a nasal tone. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. 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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