“Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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