It was now a quarter past twelve. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. I don’t think you and Mike are right for each other.
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