" "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’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. Come to take leave. "Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave. Earles with composure into the inner room.
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