A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Something he saw there made him feel for a moment ashamed. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. ‘Did it indeed?’ ‘I should think he’s guessed, don’t you?’ ‘Without any doubt at all.
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