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. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. "Yes, loves, Winny. “You did your best to kill me,” he said.
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