"You are," replied Kneebone. He opened the door of still another room, in one corner of which was a grand piano. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. I'll talk to her in the morning, but she won't understand what I'm driving at. .
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