Martha was quite right. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. “You did your best to kill me,” he said. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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