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Updated: June 20, 2025
He was too late; the door had opened and a young lady in grey stood hesitating on the threshold. She stood still, dismayed, her hand still on the doorknob, obviously distressed at the unexpected company in which she found herself.
You think it out of the leather. And then the bullet hits the doorknob. You don't move your arm. Your arm doesn't exist. You're just a hand and a brain thinking! And that thought sends a bullet at the mark!" He leaped back. "Draw!" There was a wink of light at the hip of Bull Hunter, and the gun roared. Instantly he cried out, alarmed, confused, ashamed. "I didn't mean to shoot, Pete. I'm a fool!
There's your gun with a bullet in it; there's your hand that's going to get the gun out; and there's your target that doorknob, say! Keep on thinking. They ain't any more to your body. You're just a hand and an eye. All your nerves are down there in that hand. They're all piled down there. That hand is full of electricity. Don't let your eyes wander. Keep on concentrating.
She smiled again and went out briskly, came back, and stood with her hand upon the cracked doorknob. "I clean forgot your name," she hinted. "Man told me, at dinner time, but I'm no good on earth at remembering names till after I've seen the person it belongs to." "Valeria Peyson Val, they call me usually, at home." The homesickness of the girl shone in her misty eyes, haunted her voice. Mrs.
None of them saw her take a hassock, put it behind the sitting-room door that was seldom opened, and after tying the string to the knob, seat herself upon the hassock and wait for something to happen. She waited. Nobody came near that room. The sun shone warmly in at the windows, the bees buzzed, and Dot grew drowsy. Finally she fell fast asleep with her tooth tied to the doorknob.
"Who is it, Brina?" came from within, whereupon the woman answered in rapid German, her head turned backward over her shoulder, her hand still on the doorknob. "Shame on you, Brina. They are two children lost, perhaps. Let them come in."
It was nearly two o'clock before the card announcing Deacon Baxter's absence at dinner was removed from the front doorknob, and when the store was finally reopened for business it was a most dejected clerk who dealt out groceries to the public.
Mostyn bit his lip in vexation, as he reached out for the doorknob and turned it cautiously. "Well, it is true, and it has turned the fool's head; he is spending it like water. He is giving a big blow-out to-night, and it is all for your wife, sir your wife." Mostyn made no reply, though his face looked graver; the sharp-drawn lines about his mouth deepened. "You heard what I said, didn't you?"
The rain had stopped, the sun was peeping out furtively through the clouds, the early loiterers in Dalton Street stared at them curiously. But Hodder was thinking of that house whither they were bound with a new gratitude, a new wonder that it should exist. Thus they came to the sheltered vestibule with its glistening white paint, its polished name plate and doorknob.
He looked at the man in the blue suit and said, "You've been lucky. They're after you." "Who is they?" "Taber. The government crowd. The police, too, maybe. You killed that guy in the Village, didn't you?" Les King had decided a bold approach was the best way. But he was no fool. He kept his hand on the doorknob and watched the man carefully. "By the way, you haven't told me your name."
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