She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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