I see. 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. Now she knew why the soldiers had not caught him. She had to exert tremendous energy not to sniff the air for his blood. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. Spurlock stepped into the room. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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