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There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. There were no mourners. Gold-handled, too. 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 don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length. She turned with an effort. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast.
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