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He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle.
He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.
In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, he was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart
They were eating borsch, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates.
The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.
He had never slept in a better bed, Rainford decided.
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