He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. "What do you want?" he asked, in a gruff voice. Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. They are not bad girls, but the average tourist has that misconception of them. He seemed to deliberate. “You did your best to kill me,” he said. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. She answered him almost coldly.
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