“And what will Mr. " "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. But oh, how weary I am! I know. He nodded silently, too full for words. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold. Mr. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. I know exactly what I am doing. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly.
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