Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Please sit with me. Mike was drinking a cup of black coffee. He had not had time to aim the pistol. "What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder.
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