This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. The chair is in the veranda. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books.
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