You don't mind, do you ?" He muttered something about "rust" and "an outside wall." "It's all right.

I've cleaned it myself.

I used to take it down and look at it every day." "When did you do that, Molly ?" "All the time you were away." "Good God!" He took the sword down from the nail where it hung by a red cord.
"You won't find a speck of dust on it anywhere," said she.
He had drawn the sword from its scabbard and laid it across his knee.

He felt its edge; he drew his finger down the long groove that ran along the center of the blade; his gaze rested almost passionately on the floral arabesque that fringed that bed of the river of blood.

Not a spot of rust from hilt to point; the scabbard, too, was bright and clean.
He held up the sword, still looking at it with the eyes of a lover; a quick turn of his wrist, and it leapt and flashed in the sun.
He turned to his wife, smiling.