Nothing else weighs against it. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate. There was a black fear in his heart. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. And in some incomprehensible way, Ramage was confused with Capes; she had a grotesque disposition to persuade herself that this was really Capes who surrounded her, as it were, with wings of desire. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. "Put it under my pillow," he said. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her.
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