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As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. We'll try whether he'll get loose again. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. He entered the driver’s side, not inserting the keys in the ignition.
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