“You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. Gosse was backing towards the table. Hartford had a very respectable sound. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. 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.
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