' He muttered it continually. But he had scarcely advanced a step, when he was felled to the ground by a blow from the powerful arm of Kneebone, who, instantly possessing himself of a pistol, levelled it at Jackson's head. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child.
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