And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. Manning, I do not really want to marry. Be seated, and calm yourself. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy.
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