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The Torrent

Across compressed gravel, facing a hollow-footed man, he spoke:

“It came as a sallow maraud comes upon the mind of a slit-tongued merry-sobber: galloping. That call to arms careening over dry hearts with the usual ease and engulfing dissenters as if by right. Oh it embraced me; I was no exception in that. But after most had wriggled free of the trumpets, no longer scullions to the passion, I had part of the call tamely curled around my throat, a medallion cast of the youthful fever. Here it is, here I am, and there you are, or rather there you happen to be. Your demesne looks ripe for rapine and hecatomb.”  

He stretched his head back in grin, his ranks rushing noiselessly past in rhythm.

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