‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. To-night all this may seem hard and cruel. 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. It came to Ann Veronica that life was wonderful beyond measure. For she knew that men married to get something. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight.
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