"Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing.
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