Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. “Ciao. ’ ‘A pretty tale. He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. " "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.
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