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. "Welcome," he said in Sargonese, and stood aside.
"I thank you for your gracious --" she stumbled and said quickly, "Do you speak Interlingua?"
"Certainly, madam."
She muttered in System English, "Thank goodness for that -- I've run out of Sargonese," then went on in Interlingua, "Then we will speak it, if you don't mind."
"As you wish, madam," Thorby answered in the same language, then added in System English, "unless you would rather use another language."
She looked startled. "How many languages do you speak?"
Thorby thought. "Seven, ma'am. I can puzzle out some others, but I cannot say that I speak them."
She looked even more surprised and said slowly, "Perhaps I have made a mistake. But -- correct me if I am wrong and forgive my ignorance -- I was told that you were a beggar's son in Jubbulpore."
"I am the son of Baslim the Cripple," Thorby said proudly, "a licensed beggar under the mercy of the Sargon. My late father was a learned man. His wisdom was famous from one side of the Plaza to the other."
"I believe it. Uh . . . are all beggars on Jubbul linguists?"
"What, ma'am? Most of them speak only gutter argot. But my father did not permit me to speak it . . . other than professionally, of course."
"Of course." She blinked. "I wish I could have met your father."
"Thank you, ma'am. Will you sit down? I am ashamed that I have nothing but the floor to offer
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