There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. All seemed infected with Austin's terrors except Mrs. Courtlaw’s—I should like to oblige Mr. I kicked the living shit out of him. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. Footman or some such.
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