In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming.
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