Before many minutes elapsed, he had picked a large hole in the plaster, which showered down in a cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught hold of a beam, by which he held with one hand, until with the other he succeeded, not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was painted. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience.
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