“What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with a little weak gesture at the glow. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea. " "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.
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