But a biddable girl. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. " "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. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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