An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. “Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?” “Very likely indeed,” Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible.
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