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It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. I knew him in spite of his dress. " "But Wild still lives," cried Wood. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback.
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