“I am much obliged to you,” he said. ‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend. Wood. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Its parents have perished.
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