It was a dead calm. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. Such was the terror inspired by Wild's vindictive character, that few durst face him who had given him cause for displeasure.
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