There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. He drew an awed breath. Schoolgirl.
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