"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. It’s that has always made me—SHE, you know, was drawn into a set—didn’t discriminate Private theatricals. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip.
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