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. Then to Dan Ware's, in Hanging Sword Court. Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. “Of course!” he said. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. Fool that I was to part with my lantern! But I'll soon set myself straight. Drive away the cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I particularly desired you to complete against my return.
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