Then she finished filling
the shelf with other books that she meant to keep, but her brain
was working, milling over and over the question of what that
little compartment contained and when it was to be opened and
whether John Gilman knew about it, and whether the Consolidated
Bank would remember the day specified, and whether it would mean
anything important to her.
She carried the dusters back to Katy, and going to her room,
concentrated resolutely upon her work; but she Was unable to do
anything constructive. Her routine lessons she could prepare,
but she could not even sketch a wild rose accurately. Finally
she laid down her pencil, washed her brushes, put away her
material, and locking her door, slipped the key into her pocket.
Going down to the garage she climbed into the Bear Cat and headed
straight for Peter Morrison. She drove into his location and
blew the horn. Peter stepped from the garage, and seeing her,
started in her direction. Linda sprang down and hurried toward
him. He looked at her intently as she approached and formed his
own conclusions.
"Sort of restless," said Linda. "Couldn't evolve a single new
idea with which to enliven the gay annals of English literature
and Greek history. A personal history seems infinitely more
insistent and unusual. I ran away from my lessons, and my work,
and came to you, Peter, because I had a feeling that there was
something you could give me, and I thought you would.
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