" "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. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. Kneebone. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. "Now your curiosity's satisfied, child," continued Kneebone, "perhaps, you'll attend to my orders.
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