Let me make your future for you. " "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. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. Give me your hand.
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