" He started to pick up a sheet of manuscript, but she pushed him from the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of the bungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot. If she wanted men to battle beasts in combat, a festival arose for them to battle for her. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. It doesn’t mean that these men deserve to die for whatever they have done, John. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. For awhile he watched the revolving light on Copeley's. He inspected the formidable array of rifles and at length walked over to the register. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. “Close your eyes. .
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