The Borneons, in fighting, wear a quilted jacket or spencer, which reaches over the hips, and from its size has a most unservicelike appearance […]
“Mr. Hooker, sa... Mr. Hooker, I...” “And forget the Mr., too. We're friends.” “That would not be polite. And I do not know your front name.”
a fizzing mass of froth
Small groups of killers, the scent of blood in their nostrils, now fanned out by taxi, bicycle or even on horseback into the surrounding countryside, spreading the word that a general jihad, or ‘holy war’, had broken out.
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