He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. “Dear husband,” she murmured. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. Your old rooms are there, if you choose. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me.
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