If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. What other reason could there be? It’s more complex, but it’s better. " "Never!" replied the woollen-draper; "and if that treacherous rascal, by your side, doesn't make himself scarce quickly, I'll send a bullet through his brain.
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