A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. This—all this swamps them. "A friend," replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in his pocket. They got in my mouth.
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