![]() ![]() ![]() It’s my eyes that convinced the old gent who called himself my grandfather that I was indeed his grandson. When you grow up on the streets of London you learn about a great many things of which people never speak. I have always attributed my escape from death’s clutches to Jack Dodger, who offered himself up as a target for the abuse being delivered to me. It’s difficult to tell if our noses are truly the same, as mine was severely broken at an early age, the result of an encounter that left me nearly dead. Although that similarity might be merely wishful thinking on my part. The nose-a slender knife-like shape, a fine-honed blade, aristocratic. The eyes-the shade of pewter that brought a fair price from fences. The hair-black as the soot that lined the inside of a chimney. ![]() ![]() I often study the portrait of my father hanging above the massive fireplace in the grand library of my London residence and catalogue the similarities in our appearance. It is not a pleasant thing to always doubt one’s identity. I have no memory of it, yet it has always seemed to me that I should.Īfter all, I was supposedly there, but only if I truly am who the world recognizes me to be. They say my parents were murdered in the London streets by a gang of ruffians. ![]()
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