I knew where I would go next: Florence. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. "Sir Cecil is no more. He’ll survive. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd.
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