“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. " "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. ‘Trespasses,’ supplied Gerald. I didn't mean it. “Please stay,” she said briefly. I cannot go on.
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