" "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. Running his hand carefully over it in search of the lock, he perceived to his dismay that it was fastened on the other side. “I think she would,” she decided. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Not a word passed between them.
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