“I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. " "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. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation.
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