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Of the tribes are the Inglishee to which I belong, which is the most powerful of all like your own people of the Kabilagani in this land and also another tribe called the Duyche, only a little less powerful. These two tribes are now at war." "A-a-a-a," observed M'tela interestedly. "One of the Duyche is in your country, oh, King. I have met him and defeated him by my magic.
However, they launched at him a chorus of hisses. "A-a-a-a!" triumphed Cis. "You see what people think of you? Good! Good! Why don't you go out and get hold of them? why don't you throw them around? Oh, you're safe in here, with the children!" Still Barber did not notice her. Leaning farther out across the window sill, he shook a fist into space. "Bah!" he shouted.
Winkleman produced the saurian bone. And for the first time Kingozi noticed Simba hovering anxiously near. Request and blandishments had proved of no avail in getting the magic bone from Bwana Nyele. "It is all right," Kingozi reassured him. "We but use the magic for a little while. See; it has given me back my eyes." "A-a-a-a!" ejaculated Simba, deeply astonished.
'Who are you? shouted Vasili Andreevich. 'From A-a-a... was all that could be heard. 'I say, where are you from? 'From A-a-a-a! one of the peasants shouted with all his might, but still it was impossible to make out who they were. 'Get along! Keep up! shouted another, ceaselessly beating his horse with the switch. 'So you're from a feast, it seems? 'Go on, go on! Faster, Simon! Get in front!
But this I have noticed: that when a Wakamba is dead, he remains dead; but when a white man is dead ten more come to take his place." After an hour's elaboration of this theme Kingozi judged the moment propitious to return to the original subject. M'tela offered the opportunity. "This Duyche whom you have conquered you killed him?" "He escaped." "A-a-a-a." "He is still alive and in your land.
Kingozi gazed after him, his blue eyes wide with their peculiar aggressive blank stare. A low hum of conversation swept through the squatting warriors. Those who understood Swahili murmured eagerly to those who did not. These uttered politely the long drawn "A-a-a-a!" of savage interest. "Cazi Moto, where is my chair?"
The nervous arms of the palsied man at his feet gripped him frantically. Up from the corner of the Old Wall, came the prolonged "A-a-a-a!" of dying thousands. Jerusalem had fallen.
Once, after traveling all day in a pouring rain, on alighting at her inn, the coachman, dripping all over with wet, offered his arm to help her out of the coach, when she exclaimed, to the great amusement of her fellow-travelers, "Oh, no, no! y-y-y-you will give me m-m-m-my death of c-c-c-cold; do bring me a-a-a-a dry man."
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