He hated himself a little for it. Reconnoitring them through a small grated loophole, he refused to open the door till they had explained their business. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. It was not for a week or a month. In Hamilton Place that is, like I told you before, miss. While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed.
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