Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. ’ Melusine stifled a giggle. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. ‘Wait, Jacques! I will find the way to open this.
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