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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. "You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion; "but you shall reap the reward of your treachery. And would you mind hurrying a little. ’ ‘It cannot be helped now. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman.
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