Being a Chinaman in blood and instinct, he despised all spinsters; they were parasites. She had nothing to say for herself. His fingers closed upon her hand. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. Look out, it’s coming.
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