It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. “It’s—private. "Oh! you did, did you?" said the janizary. The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea.
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