"For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. " "Accident or not," rejoined Sheppard; "you're no longer pall of mine. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. We will find some way out of it.
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