Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. Gregory B. S. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right.
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