The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. ‘You think so? Well, if that’s so, I know where she gets her impudence, Prudence Sindlesham.
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