His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. " "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. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. “Now she’s all hat and ideas,” he said, with an air of humor. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. He felt he was human wisdom prudentially interpolated. Ennison reeled, and almost fell.
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