“You killed them, didn’t you?” He said. "Well, I'm glad she's spared this. " "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. Amidship there was also canvas, and like that over the wheel, drab and dirty. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it.
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