‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. Mischief bubbled up in her. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. After Capes had finished the Scotchman’s troubles he went back into the preparation-room. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Not about girls that I date.
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