A neat tale, giving little away. 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. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. He thought her only an orphan in search of her English relatives.
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