A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. ” He looked at her anxiously, and she met his glance with a dazzling smile of gratitude. Then blackness.
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