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hours, or any weapons in the hands of the Avengers of Blood? Outside,
darkling the whole room, a single leaf of giant Virginian creeper tapped
unheeded on the pane.
Redwood became anxious to end this amazing monologue, to escape to
sanity and judgment, to that beleaguered camp, the fastness of the
future, where, at the very nucleus of greatness, the Sons were gathered
together. For that this talking was endured. He had a curious impression
that unless this monologue ended he would presently find himself carried
away by it, that he must fight against Caterham's voice as one fights
against a drug. Facts had altered and were altering beneath that spell.
What was the man saying?
Since Redwood had to report it to the Children of the Food, in a sort of
way he perceived it did matter. He would have to listen and guard his
sense of realities as well as he could.
Much about bloodguiltiness. That was eloquence. That didn't matter.
Next?
He was suggesting a convention!
He was suggesting that the surviving Children of the Food should
capitulate and go apart and form a community of their own. There were
precedents, he said, for this. "We would assign them territory--"
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