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She rang again with the same result. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. Assessing him as harmless, she had remained friendly, albeit aloof. There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila.
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