She might have taken a handkerchief in a hurry, hunted for something under the lingerie impatiently.

Still she could not rid herself of the feeling that alien hands had been rifling her belongings.

Not Bernini, decidedly.
Remembering Cutty's advice about opening the door with her foot against it, she peered out.

No emissary of Bolshevisim here.

A weary little messenger boy with a long box in his arms called her name.
"Miz Conover ?" "Yes." The boy thrust the box into her hands and clumped to the stairhead.
Kitty slammed the door and ran into the living room, tearing open the box as she ran.