It did not stick long there.

Before you could say Jack Robison, out flew the flesher in his killing-clothes; his face was as red as fire, and he had his pouch full of bloody knives buckled to his side.

I skreighed out in his face when I looked at him, but he did not stop a moment for that.

With a girn that was like to rive his mouth, he twisted his nieve in the back of my hair, and off with me hanging by the cuff of the neck, like a kittling.

My eyes were like to loup out of my head, but I had no breath to cry.