Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. ‘Thanks to him, Hilary and I nearly had our heads blown off. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. Your life is like a funeral March.
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