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Unformatted text preview: rriors in rows, with their spears and their shields. "The Picts," he said. They stared at him as if they did not understand him. "If we leave you here," said the gray-haired man, "the little people may come. The little people are full of hatred. The little people will take you away. They'll try to make a giant with you, and reclaim the world. You have the blood in you, you see." A sharp ringing sound carried over the blowing grass, suddenly, beneath the great span of boiling gray clouds. It came again, that same familiar peal. It was louder than the low grinding noise that ran on, uninterrupted, beneath it. "I know what that is!" he said to them. He tried to stand, but then he fell down again into the damp grass. How they stared at his clothes. How different theirs were. "This is the wrong time! Do you hear that sound? That sound is a telephone. It's trying to bring me back." The tall man drew closer. His bare knees were filthy, his long legs s...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10