Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. A ball from Wild's pistol passed through his heart, and a volley of musketry poured from the guards lodged several balls in the yet breathing body of his leader.
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