Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. M. . Old London Bridge. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Her long arms handled the sword with a memorized ease and grace. Gerald studied the darkness beyond the aperture.
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