“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. I had gone further than I meant to—with some Englishmen. John, he was between me and the door. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. ‘Come, cry a truce. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk. Say that I will call again or let him know my address in London. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. "Good-bye, Mac.
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