Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. He looked at her reproachfully. . He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. 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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