human
Stay, whispered the artist, as Gibault was once more about to try his piece, after rubbing the edge of his flint with his thumb-nail;
gpt
Vat foolishness! a pistol! hah! ve must run.
human
Stay! cried the artist, who no longer trembled, though his countenance was still ashy pale,
gpt
I have another pistol.
human
Does you vish to _die_?