Twisting the ends of her shawl into a quick knot, she raced out of her room, around the gallery and down the curving flight of bare steps, ribbon-caught hair bouncing across her back. Who the devil could it be this time? Hadn’t they all been taken care of—at least for this month?
She was barely to the bottom step when a demanding knock resounded through the wide entrance hall.
Grabbing the pistol from the top drawer of the hall commode, she concealed it in the folds of her skirt and yanked open the front door.
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