CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit.
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