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Fat Mr. Horner might have changed his mind if he could have watched Gilbert’s face as he drove his rattling old motorcycle over the bridge and climbed the steep slope beyond. The young man’s lips were clenched and his eyes were hard. These weekly trips to Taverton were the only gap in the deadly monotony of life in the works of Carnaby Clay, and he hated to return there, like a boy hates to return to school.