Then she went below. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer.
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