" "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. . "The poor things!" The manager laughed. Of course. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. Taber did not leave all his money in the office.
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