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. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. In response to an almost imperative gesture from the nurse, Anna laid her hand upon his.
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