“You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. "That depends upon you. Wood in a sharp tone. It’s a beautiful plant, but a tender one. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. ” He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention.
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