A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. After all, Hilary must be near returned by now. " "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. This service rendered, without waiting for any farther order, she withdrew. My destiny, I am afraid, is going to lead me into the ruts.
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