‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. I thought that Hill was dead, but I was frightened, and I wanted to get away from Paris.
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