“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. Oh, you must believe me. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword.
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