A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. He turned, expecting to see his wife. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. A shiver slid down inside her. A long and secret conference then took place between the thief-taker and his myrmidons, after which they were severally dismissed. . Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. " "Perhaps that was it.
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