There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. She paused for a moment. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. His tone was rough, almost threatening. She received into her slack grasp the pistol and dagger, only half aware of taking them. The door to the library burst open.
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