‘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. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. Michelle’s eyes were red and bloodshot. Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened.
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