” “Tut!” he said, fuming, and put out his hand to the papers in the pink tape. 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. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. There's my thumb upon it. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. Every moment. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone.
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