He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. "Many thanks, Sir," replied Thornhill, with freezing politeness; "but Id not require assistance. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. But it’s as you say.
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