It reminded Rand of farmhouses he had seen in Sicily during the War.
"Come on in and see my stuff, if you have time," Pierre invited, as
Rand pulled to a stop in the driveway. "I think I told you what I
collect--personal combat arms, both firearms and edge-weapons."
They entered the front door, which opened directly into a large parlor, a
brightly colored, cheerful room. A woman rose from a chair where she had
been reading. She was somewhere between forty-five and fifty, but her
figure was still trim, and she retained much of what, in her youth, must
have been great beauty.
"Mother, this is Colonel Rand," Pierre said. "Jeff, my mother."
Rand shook hands with her, and said something polite. She gave him a
smile of real pleasure.
"Pierre has been telling me about you, Colonel," she said. There was a
faint trace of French accent in her voice. "I suppose he brought you here
to show you his treasures?"
"Yes; I collect arms too. Pistols," Rand said.
She laughed. "You gun-collectors; you're like women looking at somebody's
new hat.... Will you stay for dinner with us, Colonel Rand?"
"Why, I'm sorry; I can't. I have a great many things to do, and I'm
expected for dinner at the Flemings'. I really wish I could, Mrs.
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