Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. “You see, daddy, I don’t think it IS preposterous. The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol.
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