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“It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. Do you know, I envy you. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. “Did he tell you, Annabel?” “Yes. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Neat little toy. " "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.
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