All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. " "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. Gerald took Madame’s hand and kissed the fingers with a little more warmth than punctilio demanded.
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