It had gone with the rest. She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. 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. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts.
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