Having made a hole in the wall sufficiently large to pass through, Jack first tossed the bar into the room and then crept after it. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. 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. You climb by disappointing men.
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