It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. " "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. It was a moment before he recognised that the effect had been similar on all those present, including General Lord Charvill.
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