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. ‘Ah, now I may see what damage Gérard has done to me,’ she muttered, crossing to the table and putting her hand to the sore place at her neck. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent.
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