It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. A moment more and he would have been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its descent. Now then. "I've spoken. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work.
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