A state of being, a part of a coat, covering over a duct. The front of a car, a villainous thug, Cloth kidnappers use to abduct.

Lovely location of learning, lined with leather-bound legacies, where whispers of wisdom are woven into the world's wonders.

Add a letter to my end, would you? I belong to the lineage of a mister; Donald is his name, childish his moniker. He does not reign, no, he does not rule, But he uses lyrics like a tool. Once you know, remove the last; your hand I cover.

I'm sticky but I'm not syrup. I can be big. I can also be tiny. I come in different colors however I'm not paint. What am I?

Lined with walls of privacy, Or, perhaps, proudly displayed. Gentle, tender, care for me, I'll give you things, Which you'll then claim to have made