’ She saw the weapon wrenched from Emile’s hand and he dropped to the bench of the pew and sat there, grasping helplessly at the welling blood on his arm. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. gutenberg.
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