" "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. “Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. “Michelle, it’s me, Lucy. She knew the truth of it all right. ’ A little sigh escaped her. ” “Don’t be shy, Lucy. " The phrase was new, but Ruth nodded understandingly. .
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