Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture.
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