"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. " "If you stir, I'll call him!" rejoined Winifred. She’s right upstairs. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere.
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