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“I wish he had,” she said. \" He piped up. ” She said. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. 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.

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