’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. . ’ ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please. From your pocket there. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. F. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword.
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