Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. Annabel, I was lying. ’ ‘Idiot. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. 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. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. I'm likely to get up any time in the night to work.
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