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. "You have behaved like a man of honour, Sir Rowland," said Wild, after he had twice told over the money. So I've grown hard—outside. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work.
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