” “Is that so wrong, to want to live forever?” “It is wrong to if the price is murder. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. " "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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