No one seeing you together could doubt that she is your granddaughter. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. "Friends!" echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. Wood. Her hair was washed for her also. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. She saw his finger pull back on the hammer of the gun and shrieked a warning just as Jack launched himself forward and Gosse turned and fired. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve.
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