It depresses one, you know. Anna hailed a bus. " "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. "Oh! nothing at all," answered Jack, sneeringly, "though this room's as much mine as yours, for that matter.
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