He drew an awed breath. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. “So far you’ve got me and I you. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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