"Breathe at this phial," said Winifred. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. " "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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