For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. The helicopter lifted from her hand and hovered in the air. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. “Isn’t there a brother to kick him?” “Mere satisfaction,” reflected Ogilvy. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. 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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