E. I will go with you. How old are you?” She asked. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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