‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. ’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door.
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