Casey

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Across the bottom of the staircase hung a pair of wooden gates, to keep the dogs from the upper floors, no doubt. But there were no dogs here now, warming themselves at the feeble fire. In days long past, there would have been a pack of hunting hounds, perhaps a lady’s spaniel or two, lolling on a bright woolen hearthrug.
An Impossible Impostor (Veronica Speedwell, #7)
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