The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. ‘What is it that you told him?’ ‘Nothing, miss, I swear. As pretty as its owner. ” The brutality of his first astonishment was evaporating. “Odd!” she said. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Stanley poured wine.
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