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. "After all, he is my father, Hoddy; and I cursed him. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. "Your faults were the faults of circumstances. They steal over to Copeley's at night and dispose of the pearl for cash. "But I'm a blackguard, too, Ruth. " "Very well. "More than you'll pay for it, friend," snuffled the Jew. “They say there are spots on the sun. I was mean to him.
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