The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. Surely she could ignore him. "Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir," observed Shotbolt. She realized in a moment what had happened. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers.
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