She stared at him. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. "He's about to cross the river. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. And empty. Kneebone?" "He'd better not," muttered Blueskin. "We'll see that, you yelping hounds!" rejoined Jonathan, glaring fiercely at them. The moment I entered the room, and found you a prisoner in the hands of Jonathan Wild, I guessed how matters stood, and acted accordingly.
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