She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. 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. Wood. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued.
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