Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. ‘That I do not yet know. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. "Enough," said Jack, recovering his composure.
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