“You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. " "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. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. No offence, I hope. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. ” She grinned.
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