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"I'm--off--my--blooming--chump," said Mr. Marvel. "It's no good.
It's fretting about them blarsted boots. I'm off my blessed blooming
chump. Or it's spirits."
"
"
"
Neither one thing nor the other," said the Voice. "Listen!"
Chump," said Mr. Marvel.
One minute," said the Voice, penetratingly, tremulous with
self-control.
"
Well?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having
been dug in the chest by a finger.
"You think I'm just imagination? Just imagination?"
"
What else can you be?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rubbing the back of
his neck.
"Very well," said the Voice, in a tone of relief. "Then I'm going
to throw flints at you till you think differently."
"But where are yer?"
The Voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint, apparently out of
the air, and missed Mr. Marvel's shoulder by a hair's-breadth.
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