“I am afraid that you are making a mistake. . ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. Some foul murder has been committed. ” He whispered with reverence. “Oh, Lord!” she said, discovering what she was up to, and dropped lightly from the fence upon the turf and went on her way toward the crest. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside.
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