My only love is for my poor lost son. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. "Always plenty to spare. "I want to know what you've done with the rest of the notes—with the gold— and the papers you took away from my room!" rejoined Wild.
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