“I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. White——” “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest.
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