A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. "So has the butterfly evil thoughts. Wait a second. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air.
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