" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. ” “He was probably right,” she declared. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. “One runs about,” said Ann Veronica. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me.
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