He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. But the five per cent. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much.
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