We felt like thieves. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. Good riddance.
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