” His arms were around her. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. 1. " "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.
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