What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. Cathy threw Mike a look. Lives by his wits and gambling. His literary instincts were reviving. By and by she heard the screen door.
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