" "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. 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. "Is that all? Then learn from me that your hopes are visionary as their foundation. I’m not ashamed—of the things I’m doing. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. Even the love of a mother does not sway him.
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