She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. He hated horizons. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. You have all the instinctive dexterity of parasites. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
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