“You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. " "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. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. They were sure to catch up with her. She slipped into bed and struggled to stay awake until she heard Cathy and Larry 14 stirring.
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