But they were too late. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. Then she went into the office. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. Wood. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless.
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