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. "We shall never be able to get you out unseen, Jack," whispered Poll Maggot. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. They are often to be found dashing about secret passages in strange houses, armed to the teeth. That bruise will answer the same purpose.
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