To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down.
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