" "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 Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success. Recovery impossible. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked.
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