He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity to the roughened stones. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. Stanley poured wine. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. “But frankly, I mean to fight this through if I possibly can. But if only you will come I do not care. We have met before. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration.
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