I found _her_....

So as I knocked at her door--in the mean little farmhouse down there in Delaware--she opened it, smiling--she was quite pretty--and blew her brains out in my very face." "Wh-what!" bawled Portlaw, dropping knife and fork.
"I--I want to see that girl again--some time," said Malcourt thoughtfully.

"I would like to tell her that I didn't mean it--case of boy and grasshopper, you know....

Well, as you say, gun-play has no place in real novels.

There wouldn't be room, anyway, with all the literature and illustrations and purpose and purple preciousness; as anachronismatically superfluous as sleigh-bells in hell." Portlaw resumed his egg; Malcourt considered him ironically.
"Sporty Porty, are you going to wed the Pretty Lady of Pride's Hall at Pride's Fall some blooming day in June ?" "None of your infernal business!" "Quite so.