Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. The poor things! Oh, it was quite dreadful. 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.
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