You must forgive the poet’s license I take. " "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. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. They bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous. By this action, Lucy already knew what the answer was.
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