His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes.
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