“Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. Her aunt went off at a tangent. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. It was horrible, but she must do it. Then there came briskly along the path towards her, an Englishman. I was grateful.
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