] CHAPTER VIII Slowly Ruth entered her own room. 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. I wanted something alive. 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. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked.
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