Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate.
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