This was just what he needed. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. “But how is it all going to end?” said Mr. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. " "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. “You’re just a boy! You grow moody and spellbound, John, and the next moment you are ecstatic.
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