And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. Nicholas is dead. As for the patient, his decision was immediate. Only you good ones— shirk. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone.
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