This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Once more breaking through the hedge he took to the fields. “But frankly, I mean to fight this through if I possibly can.
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