The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished. “I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. 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. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. She really must not go to that affair. She was greatly heartened by doing this.
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