“We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. By the by, my dear, I forgot to ask your name—perhaps you'll oblige me with it now? Hell and the devil!—gone!" He looked around in vain. Wild!" demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution. Madame shrugged.
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