I must not let you go again. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. I should be sorry if Shotbolt got the reward. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself.
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