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It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. "No von," replied the Jew. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp.
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