Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. " "Didn't the natives have a name for you?" She blushed. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune.
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