‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. " "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. She slipped out the window, jumping to the ground from the second story with very little sound. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice.
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