“How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. " "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. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. They are for serving me. ” “I’m sorry.
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