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Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. She began to feel odd sensations while peering busily at his shoulder and profile. He flipped the television on. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. I'm sorry. She let her mind run into dreams of that cloud paradise of an altered world in which the Goopes and Minivers, the Fabians and reforming people believed.
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