His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. " "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. ‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses.
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