Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. She crooked her finger. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity.
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