Taking off his stockings, he then drew up the basils as far as he was able, and tied the fragments of the broken chain to his legs, to prevent them from clanking, and impeding his future exertions. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. It melted her heart. "Dead!" echoed the boy. But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. 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. Be silent, I say, if you value his safety.
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