WE don’t think they’re right, but they don’t think we are. ’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. 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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