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Roylsden #125

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Clint pushed himself up on one hand. His other hand reached out instinctively over Anna's stomach, even though he felt it was a futile attempt at protecting her. Try as he might he couldn't move his legs, though a faint feeling was beginning to thrum through them.
The shadow didn't move.
It was the outline of a man, probably. Slim. Carrying something at his side, like a shovel or a rifle.
Clint wanted to shout out, but a strange dread filled him, as if somehow he would be responsible for Anna's death if he dared to invited this stranger in.

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