As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. His sword done with, he took up the bludgeon; balanced it in his hand; upon the points of his fingers; and let it fall with a smash, intentionally, upon the table. Her eyes flashed. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it.
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