The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. ‘I don’t want no gold! Not for serving my mistress. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. He took a sip of punch and commenced his relation. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour.
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