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Her eyes were riveted upon the photograph-frame. "How could she? How could she?" she said, in a choked voice. Gaspare took the frame away reverently, and put it against his breast, inside his shirt. "I can't go to Don Emilio, Signorina. I cannot leave you." "No, Gaspare. Don't leave me! Don't leave me!" She was the terrified child again. "Perhaps we can find a fisherman, Signorina."
On the table lay a quantity of fragments of broken glass, and a silver photograph-frame bent, almost broken. On the floor was scattered a litter of card-board. "She came in here! Madre was in here " She bent down to the carpet, picked up some of the bits of card-board, turned them over, looked at them. Then she began to tremble again. "It's father's photograph!" She was now utterly terrified.
It was like the one he had given Lloyd, except for the difference in monograms. She rubbed it lovingly with her handkerchief, and laid it beside the camera to be carried up-stairs. There were books from the old Colonel, an ivory photograph-frame exquisitely carved from Lloyd. Dozens of little articles from the girls at school, and remembrances from nearly every friend in the Valley.
It was screened from extinction in the draught by a standing photograph-frame. The picture this contained was turned away from him. After a moment it caught his attention. He moved round the table. Though Death were swooping towards him, swift and certain, on the wings of the rising current, he was drawn as a needle to the magnet.
When I get enough, maybe I'll make a photograph-frame of them." "Then you ought to put your own picture in it, for you're certainly the luckiest person for finding them I ever heard of. I'm going to carve one on the tree, here by this last notch under the date. It will be quite neat and symbolical, don't you think? A sort of 'when this you see remember me' hieroglyphic.
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