Ousted from his old retreat, the Cross Shovels, Baptist Kettleby opened another tavern, conducted upon the same plan as the former, which he denominated the Seven Cities of Refuge. ‘You little fool! I’m a trained soldier with ten years experience at my back. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. He parried without apparent effort. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day.
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