Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. “Michelle, I don’t ever want to hear you mention the subject you mentioned at dinner again. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. He would advise you how to get rid of the fellow. She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent.
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