’ ‘What if she goes back to Charvill?’ demanded Roding. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. "This she-devil has got hold of the sack. If I did not love you en désespoir, I would assuredly blow off your head. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap.
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