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Updated: June 28, 2025
Now this photo. Ah you see, the photographer's name and address have been torn away or broken off there's nothing left but just two letters of what's apparently been the name of the town see. Er that's all there is. Portrait of a baby, eh?" Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a casual glance at the baby's portrait.
"There's a shop in the next street, a photographer's, where they have one of mine in their windows," she went on, reassured by Jack's unaffected interest. "It's only round the corner, if you care to see." Jack assented; a few paces farther brought them to the corner of a narrow street, where they presently turned into a broader thoroughfare and stopped before the window of a photographer.
"They say I am like her," she whispered to herself. Then she turned to the other picture in her lap. It was a cheap photograph with an ornate border. Posed stiffly in a photographer's chair, against a background which represented a frightful storm at sea, sat Sandy Kilday.
He showed a vexation that should not leave the smallest doubt in the photographer's mind as to its truth. "You must get one of the proofs that you have given away," his friend said, "for I have not a single one left." "I will try and find one."
But Harvey remained impassive, detached, his eyes on the photographer's white muslin screen. And the angle of his jaw was set and dogged.
The beauty in and about London is entirely different from that in and about Paris; and I could not but admit that the beauty of the French city seemed hand-made, artificial, as though set up for the photographer's camera, everything nicely adjusted so as not to spoil the picture; while that of the English city was rugged, natural, and fresh.
Then it put about and passed on the port side. And the same thing occurred on every trip. And the last trippers of the day left Robinson Crusoe on the strip of beach in his solitude. The next morning a photographer's shop on the Parade pulled down its shutters and displayed posters all over the upper part of its windows.
As their eyes met they waved their hands gayly to each other; then McTeague heard Trina and her mother come up the stairs and go into the bedroom of the photographer's suite, where Trina was to dress. No, no; surely there could be no longer any hesitation. He knew that he loved her. What was the matter with him, that he should have doubted it for an instant?
At the shop that advertised for a cashier a floor-walker had glanced at her over his shoulder for an instant, snapped out that the place was filled, and walked away. The name she sought appeared across the way, lettered upon a row of first-floor windows; it was a photographer's. "Now!" said Annette. "The end this is the end!"
At the very beginning she dragged Wilhelm to a photographer's studio and disclosed to him, when it was too late to beat a retreat, that he was to be photographed. What for? A fancy of hers she wanted to have his likeness. Half-length, full-length, full-face, profile. Only when the pictures were sent home did he discover, that she did not want them for herself, but to send to her mother.
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