Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. I thought that he was dead. “Come to my rooms and have a drink. —You've your answer, Blueskin," he added, pushing that individual, who seemed unwilling to depart, towards the door; "it's useless to urge the matter further. The door opened. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. It was the grand nursery of vice.
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