"Have you been more successful, Sir?" ventured Ireton. "I've the Bridewell account to settle. " "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. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. ” Then she looked up at him with frightened eyes. ” “And what are you doing here?” the lady asked.
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