Right. A direction. That was a good start. Warsman turned towards the corner of the room and padded carefully across the floor, shoes clipped on the floorboa-- ah, he'd heard a thump when it landed as well as after it hit its mark, hadn't it? If it had landed on one of the Persian rugs this family seemed so very fond of the sound would have been swaddled by the carpeting.

Indeed, he was so preoccupied by his search that he didn't think to put off giving his answer, and found himself saying, "'Moll Flanders', by Mr. Daniel Defoe," before he could review whether or not it was wise to advertise his literary habits in this particular instance. "It has a brown cover..."