A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. ‘Take this.
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