There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. I am sorry to seem to disobey you, but I am. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. Courtlaw—Lady Mackinnor. Wood. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands.
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