The Times slipped from his fingers. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. I am safe while I am there, for I have had bolts fitted everywhere, and a pane of glass in the front door. At other times, it would seem that the sea itself had gone away.
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