Vorsack would staunchly disapprove of his attire, said nothing anyway. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. She crooked her finger. Wood. "The men. Let us be gone. "Oh, yes!—for always!" He took her hands and pressed them upon his thrumming heart; and in this attitude they remained for some time. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt.
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