The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. The deafening report froze time. “You are persuaded to come and take part in these outrageous proceedings— many of you, I am convinced, have no idea whatever of their nature. ‘Deaf? Deaf? I’ll have you know, miss—’ ‘Do not have me know anything,’ interrupted Melusine crossly, and digging into her habit, produced the fateful dagger that had cut Gerald’s hand. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate.
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