Get the men back to their posts. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. He will not come. Maybe it’s his loss. She still could not muster the strength to leave. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had.
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