His chest heaved violently, and big tears coursed rapidly down his cheeks. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. But though the shot took effect, as was evident from the stains on the ground, the villain escaped. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. ‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend. E. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. Foolish compliments were tossed about like confetti. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir.
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