He hated horizons. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. "I can do without it," muttered Jack. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. Some had the dignity and the aloofness of a rock in the sea; and others were as the polished pebbles on the sands—one saw the difference of pebble from pebble only by close scrutiny.
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