” Courtlaw crossed the room and threw open the door. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. " "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. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. “We can be alone?” She inquired.
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