"Bess wouldn't bear a rival. " "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. "Not the sort of stories young ladies should read. Salvation. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility.
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