’ ‘But in pursuit of information, Hilary, I am prepared to sacrifice my preferences,’ Gerald told him. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. " "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. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. " The Wastrel laughed.
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