After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man.
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